


Kindred

by aflyawaykindaday



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Depictions of Death, Family, Gen, Religious Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2012-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:57:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aflyawaykindaday/pseuds/aflyawaykindaday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's nice to think there's a connection, a bond between the rebellious boy and himself that lives beyond the legacy of Robin, beyond the grave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kindred

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So this one is a little less lighthearted than the last few, but I am proud to introduce Timmy to the mix of family bonding! Please enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I still don’t own these characters or the settings in which they reside. They’re still just guests in the household of my imagination, though Jason’s pretty much a permanent resident at this point 
> 
> Warning: Depictions of death.
> 
> Revised on November 2, 2013.

"How long has it been?"

He feels Nightwing turn his gaze to him, but he keeps his own white-lensed eyes ahead, body tense and aware for any foul movement in the shadows.

"What do you mean?"

Reluctantly, Robin looks to his partner and elaborates.

"How long has it been since he died?"

The expression that appears on Nightwing's face, while he attempts to cloak it behind casual indifference, is one of guilt and remorse, immediate and intense. His muscled torso shifts and slumps forward slightly, no longer aware of the city they're meant to be protecting. Now, he resides in the past, a time that did not include Robin. At least not this one.

He sighs heavily, and all of a sudden, his elder brother looks so much  _older_  and so,  _so_  tired.

"I don't know." He does. "A few years, I guess. It's hard to really keep count."

"It'll be four years tomorrow." Robin, this  _new_  Robin, knows the exact moment his predecessor breathed his last. "Batman's been acting weird. Sad. Like he's remembering what happened. Alfred, too." He looks again at Nightwing and holds his gaze unrelentingly. "And you."

Another weighted sigh and his partner finally stands and takes out his grappling hook. He turns to Robin with a small smile that isn't quite genuine. "Why don't we call it a night, huh? I think Gotham'll be alright 'til the next patrol."

Robin rises without a sound and wordlessly follows him back to the Cave. As soon as they enter, the code-names fall away, along with the masks. They are no longer Nightwing and Robin, but Richard John Grayson and Timothy Jackson Drake, adopted sons of billionaire Bruce Wayne. However, not all of them are present. One of them is missing, has been missing for over three years.

Tim turns to Dick as they undress in the locker room. "Are you going to the cemetery tomorrow?"

"Yeah. You wanna come?"

Tim starts slightly. "Would you want me to? I know things like that are usually private. You, Bruce, and Alfred always go at different times."

Dick smirks slightly. "Maybe that's the problem. We've never actually dealt with this together, as a family, even though we're mourning the same thing. It'd be a nice change to have someone with me."

It doesn't take long to decide. "…Yeah, I'd like to go. To pay my respects, at least."

"I'm sure that would mean a lot. To all of us."

* * *

Later that night, lying in bed, Tim analyzes the situation and circumstances, as he's prone to do when solving a 'mystery' of this caliber.

Jason Peter Todd. Former resident of Crime Alley and second Robin. Murdered by the Joker.

 _He died a hero._   _So why do Dick, Bruce, even Alfred, treat the topic like a plague?_

Tim has studied the Dynamic Duo for years. He personally witnessed the later years of Dick's career, and the entire duration of Jason's, however brief it was. He was one of the only people to note the less-than-obvious differences between the two Robins, like the brutality of Jason's fighting style and the considerable tension that existed between him and Batman on the field. The revelation of Robin's death had been debilitating. In that brief yet endless moment, Tim had lost his hero. A few weeks later, he was living his dream and meeting Batman face to face.

After officially moving into the infamous Wayne Manor, Tim quickly became aware of the unspoken rules of the household and its secrets. Never enter the Batcave without permission from Bruce, Alfred, or Dick. Never bring fast food into the manor ("unless you want Alfred to skin you alive," Dick had whispered and winked mischievously). And never,  _ever_  mention the name Jason Todd.

The name had the power of a cursed mantra. With its mere utterance came an immediate shift in mood. A cloud of sorrow would lower to the ground, and every disposition within hearing distance would change into a solemn, even grave countenance.

_But why? Why can't they remember him with fondness? Why does his very memory always leave such a negative impression? Even if his death was tragic, why does his entire life have to be remembered that way, too?_

Just as his thoughts return full circle, Tim hears heavy footsteps pass by his bedroom door. One look at the clock (4:13 AM), and he knows them to belong to Bruce. It's always around this time of the year that his mentor spends even more time on patrol than usual and refuses any kind of assistance from either of his protégées.

Soon, Tim hears the quiet  _thud_  of a door closing and removes the comforter from his person. He walks to his door and peeks down the hallway, wary that Bruce might catch him out of bed. With the coast clear, he quickly tip-toes down the dark, shadowed hall and soon arrives at Dick's quarters. He takes a breath before silently cracking the door open and cautiously checking for movement in the room.

"Tim?"

He jumps as a dim light illuminates the large room, and Dick looks at him curiously, sitting up in bed while supported by his elbows. He appears to be completely awake, as if he's having the same sleeping problem as his young counterpart.

Dick tilts his head. "You okay?"

Tim first thinks to lie and leave his brother to his well-deserved rest, but he knows Dick won't believe him. Instead, he shakes his head and shuffles his feet on the floor, nervous about Dick's reaction.

"…You want to come in and talk about it?"

The boy pauses, but eventually nods and steps across the threshold, closing the door behind him. Nervously, he approaches the desk chair in the corner of the room, but Dick grins and shakes his head before scooting over and patting the space next to him. As he sits, a little unnerved at the casual proximity between them, Tim decides to forge ahead without wasting time. "I heard Bruce come in a minute ago."

"Me too. Late, as usual."

"Later."

Dick doesn't respond.

"It's because of Jason, isn't it?"

A flinch, and Tim knows he's hit home. "Why does this time of year always have to be so...dark?"

Dick smiles softly and speaks, as if Tim is a young child asking about death for the first time.

"Timmy, you know why…"

"No, I don't. Jason died a hero, a true Robin. Why can't we remember him like that, instead of thinking of him as some helpless victim?"

Dick blinks at the boy for a moment, rather stunned at his conviction. Finally, he lets out another small smile. "You're right, Tim. He was a hero. No doubt about that."

The boy stops his outburst and listens intently.

"I guess it's just," he begins, running a hand through disheveled strands of hair, "it's hard to see him as just that, y'know? To Gotham, to children, to people who don't  _know_  him, he was a hero, plain and simple. But to us…it's different."

Tim is confused, cautious of the tale he's about to be told. "What do you mean?"

"Jason didn't just die a hero, Tim. He was murdered,  _brutally_   _murdered_  after being  _beaten_  within an inch of his life." Dick closes his eyes, as if the image in front of him is too ghastly to face. "There was no mercy for him, no reprieve. He had to experience every painful moment until the end. With that in mind, even though I wasn't witness to it myself, it's kinda hard to think of him as  _only_  a hero, and not the little brother who died before his time, in such a horrible way."

Tim's blue eyes are wide. He's never known Dick to be a pessimist. The man has always existed as the perpetual sunshine to Batman's self-imposed isolation to darkness, more so now than ever. That's the only way he knows his brother's statements are pure, abysmal truth. The thought wrenches his organs in a vice. "And Bruce…"

"Lost his son, right before his eyes. Bruce was powerless that day to help Jason, and he refuses to let himself forget. He refuses to forgive himself for something he couldn't control." Dick lets out a sigh, heavy and sorrow-laden. "In a lot of ways, none of us can."

"It wasn't his fault." It's all Tim can think to say, and he knows it's pathetically insufficient. "It's not anyone's fault."

"I know, Timmy. So do Alfred and Bruce. But when you lose someone, there's no logic or reason that can really get you to believe it." Dick reaches to wrap a comforting arm around Tim's narrow shoulders, stroking his arm soothingly. "I hope you never have to learn that lesson yourself."

* * *

The next morning at breakfast, Alfred announces that both Tim and Dick are excluded from patrol for the night. The boy, for the first time since his succession, doesn't protest, instead follows Dick's lead and simply nods. The solemnity that permeates the manor is more than enough to remind each of them of the day. Bruce is nowhere to be found.

Later in the day, Tim comes down the stairs in a dark, modest suit. Dick is waiting in the foyer with Alfred, a bouquet of colorful flowers in hand.

"Here you are, Master Tim." Alfred holds out another bouquet, the blooms just as beautiful as the ones in Dick's possession. Shortly afterward, the young men trek their way to the cemetery. The journey isn't as somber as it would be if taken alone, as Dick fills the silence with stories about Jason and their adventures. Despite the lightheartedness of Dick's voice and the enjoyment Tim feels in hearing his narration, there remains a kind of soberness to the tales.

It's impossible to forget why they're being told in the first place.

"I just wish there had been more time to hang out and learn about him, you know? I wish I had made a greater effort to be there for him. God knows he needed it with Bruce being his main company, and Alfred the only buffer between them."

"What stopped you?"

"The Titans, my troubles with Bruce, my replacement as Robin. All in all, a bunch of poor excuses that really had nothing to do with him."

Dick looks to Tim and smiles sadly, the cobalt of his eyes filled with too many emotions to tally. "That's why I always try to visit regularly. I don't want to make the same mistakes. I don't think Bruce does, either."

Tim believes him. It took a number of months to convince Bruce to train him to be Robin, and another several months before he deemed him fit to take on Gotham's underbelly. Even with Tim's two years of experience, Bruce still watches him like a hawk. Now he understands why. What he originally concluded to be a lack of trust in his abilities was actually an over-protectiveness to shield this son from the fate of the previous.

The grave of Jason Todd is easy to find. Bruce had the tombstone custom made. Above the boy's name rises a great stone angel, his face angled towards the sky. A silent guardian to protect the child that Batman could not.

After looking in slight awe at the grave site of his predecessor, Tim blinks to witness Dick step forward, kneel, and place the flowers reverently against the tombstone. He turns to Tim and beckons him forward. Both bouquets are soon nestled on the grave, and both young men take a moment to silently reflect.

 _It's nicer out here than I thought it would be._ Tim lifts his gaze to the tree branches above and studies the sunlight filtering through the bare branches and dappling on the ground below. The season, early spring, makes it a pleasant day, with the barest nip of cold air trailing over his cheeks and against his nose.

Despite the slight disquiet he feels in visiting such a reverent place, Tim also finds a measure of peace in the moment. Here, with his two fellow Robins, he's among kindred spirits. He belongs.

Unexpectedly, he hears Dick chuckle. He looks at him questioningly.

"I'm just thinking, this is the quietest I've ever heard Jason." He laughs again, slightly louder and more genuine. "He was never the most tranquil person. He hated the quiet, always needed to be  _doing_  something, whether it was punching around bad guys or giving Alfred and the rest of us one huge headache."

Tim can't help but grin at the idea. "He sounded great."

Dick grins in return, a joyous expression that has been missing since the beginning of the week.

"He was. A whole lot of potential and a huge heart, all wrapped up in one big attitude."

Dick's expression becomes contemplative, and he turns to put a secure arm around Tim's shoulders. "A lot like you, actually, though you're a bit more subtle."

A slight flush comes to Tim's cheeks (he hasn't yet learned to take compliments with any kind of grace) along with a soft smile that lights his youthful face.

Tim isn't religious; he doesn't know what comes after death, if anything comes at all. But it's nice to think there's some kind of connection, a bond between the rebellious boy and himself that lives beyond the legacy of Robin, beyond the grave.

Tim looks back up to the celestial being and thinks of the brother he never received the chance to know, the brother that flew over the cityscape of Gotham before his wings were cruelly clipped by its demons.

 _But you're watching over us, aren't you?_   _You have real wings now, and you're making sure we stay together, as a family._

Dick lays a strong hand on the tombstone and rubs his thumb fondly across the engraved name.

"It's been a blast, Jay. Hope you're raising hell up there."

A gust of wind billows past, stirring newly-green grass and budding branches, and interrupts the silence like a shout from the heavens.

* * *

_As if there's anything better to do in this bore of a place. Take it from me: 'Rest in Peace' is just a nice way to say, 'Hope the afterlife bores you out of your frickin' **mind**.'_

 


End file.
